samedi 6 décembre 2014

Yesterday,
a woman who was writing a cheque said aloud with a satisfied
smile: “Ah! December.” I echoed:
“Yes, it's a rounded name, isn’t it? Like October…” and we laughed, because as
silly and subtle as it was, this idea made perfect sense at that moment.

But we were
also thinking (by contrast) of November: the cold, damp, drab-transitioning month
that feels so dreary when you live in the Northern Hemisphere, at least around the 45th parallel. (Hello, lucky California/Southern Hemisphere readers :o)

Nine in the morning. No biking for me that day.

Between the
generous, golden glory of October, and the fresh, invigorating Winter feel of December, November has few positive aspects to claim, at least from our human
point of view.

So: why
November?

The great circle of Cottonwoods in the Parc Lafontaine.

This is an
actual question that we tend to ask around repeatedly, when sudden frost
alternates with bursts of rain, hail, or ice storms – while colds and various
bugs are merrily roller-coasting (at our expense) these weather waves.

And yet… And
yet.

Coming alive in the descending light.

There is a progressive slowing down in November, a soberness in the natural world that moves me
secretly.

Small, whispering flocks of leaves gathering up in the Red Oak crown.

The earth becomes darker and more apparent. Leaves turn to muted shades of amber, and they keep falling to the ground – melting into compost as the days go by – without being replaced.

As our eyes
adjust to the new spectrum of browns, we begin to appreciate their subtle
variations. Green is not taken for granted anymore; it is a chance guest, like the migrating birds.

They are so silky that you can't help caressing your cheek with them.

Gingko trees are shedding at last their golden fans, sending them a-fluttering to the soft ground.

I could stare at this for hours (were it not so brief) and loose myself in it, gladly.

Sunset is early and cold - but it lights up a revealing théâtre d'ombres right in front of you, a silent play brimming with stories, waiting for you to embark.

Andrew Wyeth states: “I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape – the loneliness of it – the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it – the whole story doesn’t show.”

Watercolour (and quote) from The Helga Pictures: Cape Coat, p. 182.

This
perpetual entertainment from mother Nature, that we somehow expect to go on indefinitely, is off
for a month (or more). That’s right, folks, we’re taking a vacation.

You can
come back next year, or you can wait and see.

For every
bird and animal, this shifting of gears has a crucial meaning that they
each have to interpret in their own way, if they wish to be alive still when
Spring comes.

To me, November is a Yin month.

My own interpretation is to take
things slowly, one at a time, and to sleep
long nights. November means: You can let these golden leaves fall
down, we are preparing you for new buds, new flowers, new leaves. And new
sprigs, because you’ll be slightly bigger. With a slightly different shape (who knows what it will be?)

Can you see, along this majestic branch, the tiny pearls in waiting?

Unfortunately,
when you are a parent, or working in a restaurant, or in a store, November is rarely, if ever, a time for winding down – December is already rising in
the background like a full moon, looming with contradictory pulls.

But if we
can, and whenever we can, ‘taking it slowly in November’ is unexpectedly
rewarding. And eye-opening.

Does this look like November? I'm not sure.

Staying
warm in colourful layers, sketching dreamily, cooking squash in the oven, being
gentle on myself, venturing outside with a thermos of fresh ginger tea in my
packsack, and looking around at the bare shapes of my wooden friends (in
the company of determined woodpeckers and busy chickadees): this is my favourite November mood.

So when
December comes, with snow storms, deep frost, and crafting in sight, I can welcome it all with genuine pleasure.

jeudi 6 novembre 2014

Every month
or so, I participate in a chanting session that makes me deeply happy.

I am
sitting on a cushion, with thirty or forty people, accompanied by a few
musicians (among whom is the lead singer): for two wonderful hours, we
chant Kirtans and other sacred songs from various cultures.

The couple
who organize these monthly events is very inspiring, and the whole atmosphere
makes me completely at ease to sing my heart out, or to whisper my feelings
through the foreign words, in resonance with the unexpected places where the
chanting takes me.

To me, this
is a complete form of meditation – in which heartbeat and breathing, mind and
heart are aligned.

When I sing these simple lines over and over, the meandering river of my breathing becomes deep and wide...

Thoughts
loose their reasoning power - they become a state of mind, which in turn is
transformed into harmonies, soothed and re-energized by the fact that everyone
is joining their voices.

Solutions
arise, doubts are dissolved, understandings take place, but all of this happens
in a random way – even as you focus on placing your voice correctly, you are
really into the vibrations of the song, carried by them, carrying them on.

Of course,
I can hum these mantras by myself – and I often do because the melodies have
become a part of me – but here, within the loving cloud of sound that you are
co-creating, the chanting brings you to another level, on many aspects.

In a way,
it is a metaphor of life, since we are all givers and receivers of this sweet
magic :o)

At Millesgarden (Stockholm), which I visited with Pierre a few years ago. A quietly blissful place.

My
favourite aspect of these chanting sessions is the shifts in rhythms and moods
from one song to another: this allows you to really feel the spirit of every mantra,
in your whole body. Joy, gratitude and awareness are literally flowing through
your bones and muscles.

Simultaneously,
your consciousness expands to the whole room, to the world at large; to your past,
to your loved ones. Often, I get clear, unexpected visions from people who are (or
have been) meaningful for me. I greet them into my heart, into the song, into
the loving river of living things, where we both belong.

This time,
I actually felt the benevolent, knowing presence of a grandmother and
great-grandmother of mine, sending peaceful vibrations that reached me in
gentle ripples slightly above my head. (Where the crown chakra is located, apparently.)

My great-grandmother Yvonne, on my mother's side. As shy as she might appear on this picture, she was a truly happy kind of person, whom everyone would refer to as a special lady.

They seemed to be telling me: “You are doing good, Emmanuelle.”

My grandmother Louise, on my father's side. Always elegant, a wonderful cook and a woman with a flair for design and commerce, she was very affectionate with all of her grandchildren, wrapping us in her arms before devouring us with kisses.

My friend
Solenne was sitting close by (we often attend these
sessions together), and it was a joy, as always, to hear her soft
voice intertwined with the others', and with mine.

At some point, I became particularly aware of the subtle balance you must find and constantly readjust - when you improvise with a group of people – between receptivity and confidence, listening and finding your voice, harmony and inspiration – and I was flooded with the revelation that this process is central in every aspect of our friendships. Or any sincere interaction.

I learned that if your attention is truly open, if you listen carefully, without any expectations about the voices around you, unexpected notes can rise, and create new harmonies every time.

It might sound obvious, and you would think I had figured this out before… Finding this balance has indeed been a very real preoccupation of mine – but during that chanting session, its actual meaning was softly imprinted in me.

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